


Tomorrow, Tomorrow

by pepijr



Category: GOT7
Genre: M/M, Murder, a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 22:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16313828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepijr/pseuds/pepijr
Summary: Seven artists are invited for a winter in the mountains to find themselves through art, though they find more than what they expected.





	Tomorrow, Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [comingbacktoyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comingbacktoyou/gifts).



The retreat begins on the train platform. 

It’s cold enough that most people wait inside, but a few linger in the open air, near the tracks. Some huddle together, some saunter around, alone but determined, and Jaebum knows from experience that he’ll find the group among them. Artists, he’s noticed, are drawn to what they shouldn’t, wander into places they shouldn’t wander in and he’s never been sure if it’s by nature or by purpose, but one glance around and he sees blue circles pinned on a few shivering jackets and trembling coats. A group of four are talking to each other, resemble a dark shape against the white of the mountains behind them and though the air is on the verge of snow, the cold threatening to leave them frozen still, they don’t seem to notice. 

Jaebum approaches with his single suitcase, with his old beanie wrapped around his head, with his blank gaze and they ignore him until one notices his pin. 

“You’re with us,” one says, pointing. 

Jaebum looks down, as though he’d forgotten the pin was there at all. 

“I guess so,” he says, looks up, attempts a smile, “I’m Jaebum.” 

\--

They introduce themselves on the train, squeezed together into a table and booth meant for only four. Other than the group he’s met, there had been two others in the bathroom, and with him it makes seven. He sits at the edge of the table, watching everyone give an introduction and it feels like watching interviews, as if trying to prove why they deserved the fellowships handed to them. 

Bambam is a photographer and Yugyeom is a filmmaker, though most of their work is done together, and often overlaps. Even now on the train, Bambam sits next to Jaebum with Yugyeom in his lap, his ear at Yugyeom’s spine, as if listening to his heartbeat. Across from them, Mark introduces himself as an installation artist, and Youngjae as a performance artist, and Bambam lifts his head from Yugyeom’s back and leans in to Jaebum to whisper, “They’re close friends, if you know what I mean.” 

Jaebum turns to look at him and Bambam wiggles his eyebrows and presses his tongue against his cheek so the skin bulges. He smiles, politely, and when he looks at Mark and Youngjae again he can’t help but notice how close they are -- not because they’re squished into a booth but rather in the way Youngjae leans slightly forward, Mark slightly backward, and how their shoulders fit like pieces of a puzzle. How their torsos meld, how they seem to move and breathe as one. Jaebum feels embarrassed, as though he’s watching something he shouldn’t -- something personal and intimate. 

A moment later, Jackson talks, introduces himself as a sculptor and then Jinyoung introduces himself sheepishly as the most boring, the only painter. Not a second after, Bambam’s voice is in his ear again. 

“Jackson and Jinyoung are exes,” he whispers, “It was a tiny little scandal when they broke up. I heard Jinyoung broke four of his sculptures before Jackson’s show opened.” 

Urged by this information, Jaebum studies them closer and notices that Jackson has his arm around Jinyoung -- not behind him on the booth, not on his shoulders, not on his back, but lower, right under his waist, where his hand hides under the table. He also notices how Jinyoung’s body is curved against Jackson, how it seems to bend, like a flower arching towards the sun, an involuntary but crucial action. He wonders how much Jinyoung might need Jackson, still. He wonders how fresh the wounds are. 

And when he looks up, Jinyoung is looking back at him, curiously, as if studying him. Jaebum smiles, looks around, and notices that each pair of eyes is on him. Though winter rages against the window, he feels hot, too hot, and embarrassed. Everyone looks expectantly and Jaebum freezes until Bambam’s warm whispers settle on his ear. 

“It’s your turn,” he says, “Introduce your art.” 

Jaebum clears his throat, rubs his hands in his lap. 

“I make miniatures,” he says, “Working miniatures.” 

Mark frowns, asks, “So, like, just miniature versions of things? Like model trains?” 

“Sort of,” Jaebum says and tries to say more but his words get stuck. He’d expected this to happen -- though he doesn’t know any of them, he knows of them, knows their work, the way galleries had named them rising stars, or stars already, while Jaebum’s last show hadn’t been a show at all, but a section. In the corner, a white room with small, round mirrors along the walls and a single table in the middle. It had been a miniature city hall with a miniature parade marching around it, with miniature townsfolk holding up reflective flags. At the top of the town hall had been a mirror, so that each viewer could see themself reflected, could see themself celebrated. He’d been overshadowed by his peers, but he doesn’t feel the weight of it until now. He’s a stranger to them, his work unknown, and for a second he feels like a stranger even to himself. “They’re not just miniatures, they’re like experiments. It requires participation.” 

Most of them are silent, some of them frown processing the information and Jaebum wishes he had lied. Then Jinyoung chirps in with a smile, and says, “That sounds really interesting. I can’t wait to see them.” 

Jaebum looks up at his eyes, finds warmth, a genuine fire, and he decides, then, that Jinyoung is his favorite. 

\--

They all get off after two stops, lug their suitcases into an even colder winter, and an emptier station. Everything is smaller here, in this town, and they wait in front of the station next to the road, unsure of what’s next. Then a man in an old van pulls up, rolls down his window. 

“Are you the NORA recipients?” he asks and they all nod. He parks the van, steps out, declares, “I’m your ride.” 

As they load their things inside, Bambam asks, “So when are we going to meet the director?” 

The man groans, tying some luggage on top of the van. A breeze blows and they all shiver, come closer together. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “She hired me to take you guys up there and bring you food once a week. She said she would come by when it ended, to clean up and make room for the next recipients.” 

Bambam nods, Yugyeom hums, and the rest accept the explanation without objections. They have been promised room and board for three months, with two studios for their use in a home away from the bustle of cities, or the distractions of people, as well as a sum of money upon completion. A bit of cold and some mystery were small against the prize. 

So they board the van, and Jaebum looks out of the window as buildings disappear, give way to trees, and then nothing at all. The entire landscape seems to be barren and white, and he wonders if the van might break down. It bleats and almost crawls up the jagged roads, struggles when they twist and curve, seems too large when the roads thin and they can see over the edge of it, how high the mountain is, how it seems to grow even larger the longer they look. How the white swells, threatens to swallow them. Yugyeom and Bambam sleep huddled in the back corner, Youngjae at their side. Jaebum sits in the middle row, to the edge, pretends to be interested in the white landscape as Jinyoung and Jackson whisper to each other beside him, laugh from time to time, sometimes sit in close, warm silence. Mark sits up front with the driver, reading, and for a while the flip of pages and the rumbling motor is the only sound. 

Then something prods his leg and he turns to find Jinyoung smiling in his direction, his eyes are thinned gently behind thick-framed glasses. The cold has made his cheeks red, and his scarf hides the bottom of his face, makes him look younger than he is. 

“Hi,” he says, “You’re so quiet.” 

Jaebum smiles, glances at Jackson that’s staring out of the window, then back at Jinyoung. 

“I’m shy,” he confesses. 

“Me too,” Jinyoung answers. His smile widens and Jaebum notices how full his cheeks are, how round, and Jinyoung, as if embarrassed, lifts his shoulders so his scarf hides even more of his face. “But we’re going to be together for a while, we might as well be friendly. Get to know each other.”

“I’d like that.” 

“So, what’s your story? Where are you from?” 

Jaebum opens his mouth to answer but another sound fills the air. Yugyeom has woken up, and in turn Bambam has, too, and they both take turns expressing their excitement as they spot the house in the distance. 

It looks veiled from here, cloaked in a winter daze, almost unreal, but the closer they get, the more real it becomes. It’s a wide house, looks like an overgrown cabin. There are two large windows in the front, a small patio, a rocking chair that looks frozen, and the second floor boasts a small balcony. 

“Why is it just a house in the middle of nowhere?” Mark asks and the driver huffs. 

“They used to cut the trees,” he says, “Until it got banned. This is where the workers would sleep.” 

Again, they accept the explanation, though they all groan when the engine cuts off and they have to pull their suitcases out from their place. Yugyeom complains that his is frozen, another that it’s wet, but they all haul their things into the house. To their surprise, it’s warm and the lights work. 

“There’s a generator outside,” the driver informs them when they walk inside into a large living room, with a few sofas, some tables, and a bookshelf against the wall. To their right is a dining room, and all around on the floor, and on the walls, are small bits of decor, some mismatched rugs, frames that come in circles and squares and no shapes at all. Jaebum reaches out to touch one with a tassel beneath. 

“The invitation said each person is expected to leave something behind, like a signature that they’ve been here,” Jinyoung says as he steps closer to Jaebum. He feels Jinyoung’s presence behind him as they both look at the painting: a small purple body, streaked and streaming down, as if bleeding or in motion. Then the driver keeps talking, brings the group into the hallway and points out the rooms and Jinyoung and Jaebum separate. 

In all there’s eight rooms, six on the bottom, nothing large or lavish but definitely enough. One side of the floor is where the kitchen and dining room and living space is, and above, on the second floor, are two other rooms, and two studios. There are two bathrooms on the bottom floor and none on top. 

“There’s enough food for two weeks, and each week I’ll bring more,” the driver says, “So if you have any special requests, let me know. There’s a car behind the house for any emergencies. The phone isn’t new, but it works.” 

He looks around at the artists, as if he’s run out of things to say. He doesn’t seem to see them, really, but rather past them, as if he’s already thinking of something else, his mind in another place, another destination. He gives them a wave and disappears, and before he rides off, he yells, “Make yourselves at home -- that’s what the woman told me to say!” 

\--

They each settle into rooms -- Mark and Youngjae take the rooms on the top floor and the rest settle on the bottom floor. Bambam and Yugyeom decide to share a room, Jaebum takes his own, as does Jackson, as does Jinyoung. Yet, later, after a few hours of getting settled in, as Jaebum heads towards the kitchen and passes by the rooms, he finds that Jinyoung’s is empty. The door is ajar, his clothes strewn a bit messily over the bed, his suitcase gaping open in the corner. 

A few steps later, he finds himself in front of Jackson’s room. The door isn’t closed, offers a sliver of the inside and at first he sees skin -- tan and taut and stretched over firm bones.  He sees the ripple of muscle, not large but steady, wrapped around a set of arms. He follows it up to what seems like shoulders, then lowers to a brown nipple, then to a soft hip and that’s when he sees the back of Jackson’s hair -- Jinyoung’s fingers curled into it. His head bobs up and down and Jaebum blushes, tries to walk away but he bumps into Bambam. 

His smile is wide and pointed, almost sharp. 

“I told you,” he whispers, and Jaebum shakes his head, continues to the kitchen. Once there, he busies himself with preparing food, or pretending to -- his mind is distracted, both by the cold, by the other people in the rooms. He’s used to being alone, used to silence, but the house has become awash in sound, and he doubts he’ll get to sleep tonight. The roof drums with footsteps every time Mark and Youngjae move too quickly, and he can hear quiet chatter from the Yugyeom’s rooms, and if he listens closely, he thinks he hears panting. Other than the people, the house itself settles constantly, as if it were cold, too, and when Jaebum sits on a kitchen shelf drinking hot chocolate, he closes his eyes and listens to it. 

It’s almost soothing, like a song, and he gets so lost in it, so swept up in the house sighing and gasping that he doesn’t notice the other presence in the kitchen until a cabinet door closes. His eyes open to find Jinyoung reaching something in the top shelf. It’s high enough that he has to stretch, has to lift his heels and stand on the tips of his toes and when he does that his white shirt rides up. Jaebum blinks a few times, then realizes that the shirt is the only thing Jinyoung is wearing, that it’s thrown loosely around him, completely unbuttoned, falling carelessly on the curve of his back, teasing at the top of his bottom. The stretch has made the muscles of his legs tense, and it makes it hard to look away from the lovely shape of his calves. 

Jaebum almost chokes but he catches himself, keeps drinking, swallows, savors the warmth -- the sweetness collecting at his throat -- before he says, “Do you need help?” 

Jinyoung struggles for another second before he pulls down a small tub of nuts. Then he looks over at Jaebum with a smile. 

“We’re the same height, Jaebum,” he purrs, and Jaebum feels the sound in his gut. Jinyoung doesn’t seem to notice that he’s the only one naked, and he moves naturally around the kitchen, almost gliding, as if in his prime. The closer he gets to Jaebum, the more his heart races, but Jinyoung seems calm, even when he leans on the counter next to him, offers him some dried fruit. 

“No thank you,” Jaebum says and Jinyoung shrugs and his entire shirt moves and Jaebum averts his gaze, though he’s aware of him, of the heat of his body, the soothing lines of it, then, as if to distract them both, he asks, “I can make some food, you know. A real dinner.” 

Jinyoung shakes his head, “Maybe tomorrow. Jackson’s allergic to peanuts, and every time I see him I just crave them -- like wanting something forbidden, you know?”

“Whenever you want -- and sure, I guess. I know what you mean.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jinyoung says, replaces the tub of nuts and washes his hands vigorously so his whole body seems to tighten, then he takes the bag of fruit, and walks backwards out of the kitchen, smiling, with a tiny wink in Jaebum’s direction. When he turns around, Jaebum studies him in the lowlit glory -- the dimples on his back, the crease under his ass that forms and disappears with every step, the way his arms sway just right, as if a slow, celestial dance. He even notices his hair, how it moves gently, how he’s tucked it behind his ears and the glasses keep it in place. And when he’s disappeared, when his hot chocolate is gone and he finds himself back in his room on a stiff mattress with an empty suitcase at his side, Jaebum savors the warmth inside of him that keeps growing. 

It feels like a wound, almost, that’s opened, that bleeds, that hurts if he thinks about it, disappears when he doesn’t. That numbs him when night spills in from every window, seems to lock them inside. 

Slowly, he notices the lack of sound. He thinks he hears steps down the hallway, then the sound of closing doors, but there is nothing. No chatter from the rooms, above, there’s no longer any creaking. He thinks he hears beds being pushed, being jumped on, but that sound has faded, too. The rooms are silent.  

So his imagination replaces them with what he thinks an old house should sound like, whining in the wind, complaining about its old bones, its ancient lungs. Outside, the generator must be humming and humming like a beehive, and Jaebum imagines bees crawling in from the windows, buzzing over to his head, crawling into his ears, spitting honey into the grooves of his mind. 

And in those folds, he finds the same three images: Jinyoung’s smile, his lips moving around words, telling him that his art is interesting -- then the scarf and the glasses, the eyes that peeked through, sharp and wide and loving -- and finally, the landscape of skin, with its folds, its shadows, the highlights where a body pushes through. Each one is golden, each one is sweet, and before he knows it, he no longer hears the generators or the house or his own breathing. He only hears Jinyoung’s voice, and he closes his eyes, chases after it. 

\--

Jaebum wakes up early, as he’s used to, steps out into the silence of the hallway. He heads to the bathroom with a towel and a change of clothes and finds one door closed, one open. He slips into the unoccupied one, starts to undress. Here, like in his room, little sound spills in so he focuses on his own -- his breath as he stretches, the rustle of clothes as he slips off socks, his shorts, pulls of his shirt. His underwear is around his thighs when Jinyoung walks in, already pulling off his shirt. He lets the shirt fall to the floor and then he notices Jaebum. They both look at each other for a second, saying nothing, their eyes lively, their gaze doing most of the talking. Jaebum straightens up, tries to put his underwear back on but Jinyoung says, “Sorry -- I had to go back for something.” 

Jaebum’s fingers pause, waiting for a command, as if this were a dance and Jinyoung were leading. Jinyoung shakes his head, lowers his fingers to his own shorts and smiles. 

“It’s big enough for two,” he says, “We can both shower.” 

They both finish undressing, both step into the shower wordlessly. They find out, together, that it isn’t big enough for two, not comfortably. Jinyoung steps under the spray of water, wets his hair, his back, the rest of his body follows and gleams and when it’s Jaebum’s turn to do the same, in the small shower, small enough to hold their breaths, their warmth, but not much else, their bodies glide against each other. This isn’t a problem, he thinks, not the gliding, not the touching, but his blood has been rushing southward, between his legs and it’s his erection that brushes against Jinyoung’s thigh, that gives him pause, that makes him smile. 

Jaebum closes his eyes, focuses on the way the water washes over him -- not hot, nor warm, closer to cool. Still comfortable, though, so when he turns back to Jinyoung and opens his eyes he feels comfortable. Jinyoung holds a bottle of shampoo out and Jaebum holds out his hand. In a few seconds, they’re both lathering their hair, both pretending not to notice the way their wet bodies glimmer, the way they glow with something more than friendship. Then Jaebum dips his head under the water, rinses his head off and when he goes to switch places with Jinyoung, he’s stopped. Jinyoung puts his hands against his shoulders, pushes him back, gently, against the wall as he rinses himself off, too. 

Jinyoung is slow, achingly so, and Jaebum has to watch the suds and small bubbles slide down Jinyoung’s neck, down his chest and he watches them swim on streams of water that circle Jinyoung’s navel, down between his thighs, around his knees, down lower, to his feet. When he looks up Jinyoung has opened his eyes, looks at him closely, as if studying him, as if preparing to paint Jaebum and he feels shy, almost small. Jinyoung lifts his hand, moves the shower head so that it sprays away from them and leaves them in a silence, like a makeshift waterfall, this their cove. 

He steps closer, looks down, and Jaebum follows his sight. They’re both hard, and Jinyoung steps closer until their cocks are aligned, until their heads touch and he takes a hold of them -- one in each hand -- and rubs their tips together, experimenting, teasing. Each brush sends Jaebum’s nerves on edge, makes him twitch, too, but Jinyoung is focused. He looks up, his gaze blank, his eyes meeting Jaebum’s lips. After a few seconds he starts to stroke, not slow, but paced and he leans forward, catches Jaebum’s lips in his.

The kiss is wet -- he isn’t sure of whether it’s Jinyoung’s tongue or the aftermath of the shower but it’s wet and warm and cool and heavenly. Jinyoung doesn’t move their lips much, and neither does he. They just focus on their tongues, swiping against each other, creeping into the other’s mouth -- Jinyoung’s teeth brush against his tongue before Jinyoung pushes it out with his, seems to relish the feel of Jaebum’s mouth. Then he pauses, lets out the smallest moan, the faintest breath when Jaebum, blindly, reaches for Jinyoung’s cock and starts to pump, too. Their rhythm stutters for a moment and they pull their lips a part, opt to look at each other’s eyes, to smile, shyly. They opt to put their foreheads together as their hands get faster and faster, as pleasure starts to spread from his groin elsewhere with the patience of water, warm and cool at the same time. 

Sometimes he slows, relishes the feel of Jinyoung’s slick cock, the way his fingers slide when he loosens his grip. The tip of them brush against his balls, and Jaebum enjoys the texture, the way it makes Jinyoung’s stomach tense, his breath hitch. His eyes are barely open -- look closed, but Jaebum still makes out the color in them, the unmistakable white, the way his gaze still matches his own. 

He relishes the shape of Jinyoung’s chest, the way the muscle is pulled taut as his arm keeps moving to the rhythm, the way his entire body seems to stiffen when he whispers, “I’m close.” 

They kiss again, though it’s nothing more than pressing their lips together, nothing more than Jaebum catching Jinyoung’s wet breath in his mouth as Jinyoung cums. Some of it gets on Jaebum’s fingers -- something warm, almost boiling, almost alive. Jinyoung’s hand resumes its motions and Jaebum clenches so he reaches his climax faster, desperate to cum with Jinyoung’s lips still on his own, with his weak figure leaning and delicate and so different from the confident shape of before. 

His hand is still on Jinyoung’s cock so he spreads his shorts fingers, makes sure he can hold his balls and his soft, shrinking cock -- he gives it all a harsh squeeze and Jinyoung whimpers and that’s when Jaebum cums with a tiny shudder, with a tiny hitch of his breath and a second after they both breathe normally, or try to. When he opens his eyes, Jinyoung is looking down at their cocks -- the mess they’ve made. He turns his fingers around, as if studying Jaebum’s cum and then he looks up at him in the eye. Slowly he raises a hand, presses his finger against his lips and Jaebum has to watch Jinyoung swipe out his tongue over his lips, has to watch him taste Jaebum’s cum, wordlessly, with lidded eyes, an empty gaze. Then they both lean in and Jaebum tastes himself against Jinyoung’s tongue. 

It’s not the taste that stands out to him -- it’s the sensation of their bodies coming closer, wet, slippery. Of Jinyoung’s warm hands moving along his back, gliding down, rubbing over his ass and it’s the soft skin beneath Jaebum’s fingers as he gropes around, first at Jinyoung’s hip, then his ass, then between, where he slips his fingers, teases his entrance as if their adventure could continue now. As if the cum sliding down his thighs, their wet hair clinging to their foreheads and ears, as if their shoulders, slowly drying, and their chests, rubbing together with every breath, their nipples touching, were only the beginning. 

That sucking on Jinyoung’s lip until it swells -- that biting it until he’s sure Jinyoung is in pain -- were only an introduction. 

Jaebum hopes it is. 

\--

The rest of the morning is a blur. Bambam orchestrates a breakfast, though it consists of Yugyeom cooking as he stands by, testing the food, making coffee and forcing everyone to join them at the table. 

“We’re a family,” he says as they all sit down and start to eat. 

Bambam dominates most of the conversation, and Jaebum notices that he, out of all of them, is the only extrovert. The rest of the boys look up and nod, but other than Youngjae, and sometimes Jinyoung, nobody seems to contribute. Even Yugyeom, his partner in everything, seems shy, timid, like a child entering a new school. 

He only chimes in to say, “Did anyone notice the heater?” 

Mark pauses, “What about it?” 

“There’s that weird smell.” 

Mark shrugs, as do the others, so Yugyeom closes his lips, goes back to eating in silence. 

Jaebum feels closer to them, but farther away, too. The memory of his shower is still fresh in his mind, and though he searches for Jinyoung’s gaze, he doesn’t find it. 

Instead what he sees is the side of his head as he talks to Jackson, and he gives up on any conversation for now. There will be time, he thinks, plenty of time. 

When it’s over, most of them return to their rooms, too tired to work on art. Or uninspired, as Youngjae admits to him when they carry their plates to the sink. 

“This weather,” he says, “It’s sucking the life out of me.” 

Jaebum nods, though he doesn’t agree. The cold reminds him of how warm he is on the inside -- makes him feel alive. He turns to tell Youngjae, but he’s gone now. The rest leave silently, and Jaebum, alone in the kitchen, takes it on himself to clean up alone. 

\--

Bambam suggests they make dinner in the afternoon, but nobody seems willing to leave the comfort of their room. 

“We just need to get used to the weather,” Bambam says from where he stands at the door of Jaebum’s room. The doorframe makes him look small, and Jaebum wonders how a personality so large can fit inside of him. He imagines his spirit aching for something larger, imagines Bambam’s body bursting at the seams with energy, skin waiting to burst. 

“It’s only going to get colder,” Jaebum says. 

Bambam considers this for a second, then shrugs. 

“Then we’ll have to get closer together. Huddle up for warmth.” 

He smiles, and Jaebum returns it. Then Bambam disappears and Jaebum goes the door. Most of the lights are off, so the house seems to darken with the sky outside. It’s bathed in a dark blue, just light enough to make out the general shapes -- the door in the distance, the corner of the walls that separate the rooms from the living room. He thinks he makes out the stairs, the sofa in the distance, still and unmoving, soaked in fading colors. Everything looks underwater. 

When he’s about to turn back inside and close the door, he sees Jinyoung walking back from the kitchen. He has a book in his hand, large, hardcover -- probably a book of paintings. Jinyoung doesn’t seem to notice him watching, too focused on trying to make out shapes in the fading lights. He only looks up to make sure of the room he’s walking into. Jaebum watches him step inside his own and close the door. He waits for a minute, makes sure that Jackson’s door remains closed. 

When he’s sure that Jinyoung’s door is closed for good -- that beyond it, Jinyoung is curled up under a blanket, his glasses strewn aside, the book closed and on the shelf, his heart slowing as his body cools for the night -- Jaebum is able to close his own. 

He stretches out on the bed, lets himself daydream of what tomorrow might bring. He falls asleep happy with the hope of running into Jinyoung in the bathroom again. 

\--

The next morning, Mark finds the first body. 

Jaebum, groggy, wakes up to his yelling, leaps to the door. Everyone appears in similar states of confusion, of exhaustion. The trip has taken its toll and they all struggle to understand what’s happening until they follow the voice down the hallway and into the living room. 

Mark is bent over in the far corner, by the window, crying into the floor; it looks like he’s praying with all his might, with every fiber of his being to Youngjae’s body hanging from the ceiling. It doesn’t move, instead hangs still -- a noose wrapped neatly around his neck. 

Yugyeom yells next, as does Bambam, while the rest of them stare in shock. Jaebum looks to Jinyoung who looks calm, though his hands are shaking. He reaches out, almost touches them, but Jackson is quicker. He takes his fingers, his palms, pulls him close into a hug and that’s when Jinyoung falls apart. That’s when his composure shivers and breaks, like a dam coming apart, and lets every tear and sob rush past. It makes Jaebum’s stomach twist.  

Then Mark stands and starts screaming for someone to help him, so they all move except for Jackson and Jinyoung. Jaebum helps Mark lower the body and Bambam deals with the rope and Yugyeom tries the phone. After a second he yells, “It doesn’t work.” 

This sends Mark into a fit of curses while Bambam and Jaebum look at each other, look up at the ceiling, look at the window, look anywhere that isn’t the body. Jaebum looks towards the hallway where Jackson and Jinyoung have separated; Jinyoung looks stunned and Jackson rushes around the room looking for the keys to the car. He disappears for a few minutes then comes back in, screaming. 

“The fucking battery is dead!” 

The air is tense, hard to breath. Yugyeom starts to cry, Jinyoung looks around the room, at no one in particular, his eyes still wide, his lower lip quivering. Bambam looks angry at the floor and Mark still looks distraught -- he settles on the floor, his head in his hands, his fingers tight around his hair, as if pulling on it. 

“I don’t want to stay here,” Jinyoung says, his voice near cracking, “I don’t want to be here.” 

“We can’t do anything,” Bambam says, “We’re stuck here.”

“There has to be something,” Jinyoung pleads, walks to the door, rests his hand on the doorknob. 

“You’ll freeze if you try walking,” Jackson says and silence returns, a thick silence, one that wraps around their necks, one that makes them feel like they, too, are dying, slowly losing air. 

“He comes back every week,” Jaebum offers and Bambam nods. 

“You’re right,” he answers, “We just have to be here a week.” 

“What the fuck are we supposed to do until then?! What the fuck do we do with the body?!” Mark yells and all their attention turns to Youngjae. He almost looks peaceful, his eyes closed, his neck colored and bruised. Then Yugyeom turns around and pukes and the scene starts to rot. 

“We can put him outside, it’ll… preserve him,” Bambam says and Mark glares in his direction, though doesn’t protest. Slowly, he gets to his feet. 

“Help me carry him,” he says, then looks around, then his eyes fall to Youngjae. They glimmer with new tears and Jaebum feels bad -- he’s never seen someone so heartbroken. 

\--

Hours later, everyone flits silently around the house. Mark stays caged up in his room, but the others move, try to make no sound, try not to provoke the silence. The mood has been altered -- the peaceful rocking of the house now seems menacing, and each breath it takes sounds like doom, like foreshadowing something to come. 

Jaebum sits on his bed, too distracted to do anything but stare at his suitcase, its mouth open, zipper undone. Then there’s knocking on his open door and he finds Jinyoung standing in the entrance, smiling a broken smile. 

“You still want to make me food?” he asks, low, as if a secret. 

An hour later they find themselves upstairs in one of the studios next to the window. Jinyoung eats his sandwich in silence as Jaebum apologizes. 

“I thought they’d have real food,” he says and Jinyoung smiles, shakes his head. 

“This is fine, really. I just wanted some company -- this thing has me shaken up. I didn’t really know Youngjae, but for that to happen…” Jinyoung trails off, looks out the window. Jaebum looks at his food, then Jinyoung, then reaches forward to take his hand between his, to rub the back of it. Jinyoung turns to smile and they share that moment, innocent, warm, soaked in dread. It’s as comforting as it is clinical, feels cold as it does hot. 

“Why do you think he did it?” Jinyoung asks in a whisper and Jaebum shrugs, squeezes his fingers. 

“Maybe he didn’t mean to.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Jaebum leans back and shrugs. He imagines the steps it would take to find rope, to tie it, to do it all alone and with no help -- all while keeping quiet, while being stealthy. 

“It’s a lot to do just on impulse alone.” 

“Well,” Jinyoung says, sighing, leaning back. He rests his head against the window and closes his eyes. “Like I said, I didn’t know him. I just don’t want to be here -- I don’t want to wait.”

Jaebum studies him, and for a second he wishes he could paint, that he could move around the room and collect brushes and colors and a wide canvas so he could plot out each color and blend them into the shape of Jinyoung’s throat, his cheeks, the spray of eyelashes on his eyes, the thick brows, the ears that poke out, all of it lit by the softest winter light tumbling in from the window -- all of it diffused, none of it focused. Jinyoung looks like a dream, and Jaebum’s heart leaps for a second.

Then Jackson is at the door, yelling for Jinyoung. 

“What do you want?!” he answers and Jackson steps closer, inspects the scene, then looks at Jaebum -- not angry or jealous but curious.

“You alright?” he asks and Jinyoung sighs, then nods. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“You know, you can sleep with me until we get out of here. So you’re not alone.” 

Jinyoung looks up at him and Jaebum feels like he’s intruding. He suddenly remembers the room, the partly opened door, the flush of color on Jinyoung’s cheek, the light sweat and Jackson’s head bobbing between his thighs. He remembers the fingers curled into his hair, how erotic the shape, how desperate it had all seemed. Jaebum’s cheeks turn pink and he looks down at his food, remembers his place. 

“Thank you,” Jinyoung says, and before he can say more, somebody starts yelling from downstairs. 

All of three of them stand, rush out of the room, step down the stairs and catch the end of an argument. 

Yugyeom is holding Bambam back and Mark stands near them, his nose bleeding. 

Bambam is still yelling, though he can only make out, “You sick fuck!” 

Jackson steps ahead of them, asks what’s happening and Mark just shakes his head and leaves, past the rooms, down the hall, and opens the back door. He slams it shut behind him. 

Only Yugyeom replies, quietly, as if embarrassed, “He said Youngjae didn’t kill himself. That someone must have done it and -- Bambam -- they argued --” 

“He thought I had something to do with it when I told him Youngjae did it himself. So we argued, that’s that.” Bambam wrestles himself out of Yugyeom’s hold, though there isn’t much protest. He stalks to his room and Yugyeom follows and leaves Jackson and Jinyoung and Jaebum to stare between one another. 

Then Jinyoung says, “I think we should all eat dinner together, before they end up killing each other.” 

Jaebum snorts, but Jackson stays silent, shakes his head, and leaves to his room. 

\--

“Has anyone seen Mark?” 

Jaebum looks up from his seat and shakes his head. Yugyeom does the same, Bambam doesn’t bother. From the kitchen, Jinyoung says, “I think he’s still outside trying to get the battery to start. I don’t know what he expects, he just really doesn’t want to be here right now.” 

Jackson looks shocked for a moment, then sighs, and every line on his face, every shape of his body, grows tired. It seems to sag, and soon he claims a seat across from Jaebum. Jinyoung comes back with a plate for him and they all sit down to eat. 

They eat in silence, mostly. Every time Jaebum looks up, most of them are scowling at their food, except for Yugyeom that looks sad, and Jinyoung -- every time their eyes meet, Jinyoung smiles at him, though that looks tired and sad, too. Exhausted, growing thin. He wonders how long it’ll be until he cracks. 

And when they finish, they do so in silence, too. Nobody thanks Jinyoung for gathering them, for making food, but he doesn’t seem hurt. Instead, to Bambam, he says, “I think you two should talk. Apologize to each other.” 

To Jaebum’s surprise, Bambam doesn’t look angry, just regretful. He looks at Jinyoung, shrugs. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

A few minutes later, he leaves with Yugyeom, and Jackson stands up and says to Jinyoung, “I’ll see you later.” 

Once they’re gone, Jaebum helps Jinyoung wash the plates and clear the table. Then they both stand in the kitchen, somehow feeling heavier than before. 

“I hope this was the last argument. I really don’t like when people fight, and we’re already all nervous and anxious. I’m scared,” Jinyoung says, but he almost whispers the last part and it reminds Jaebum of winter. Of snow falling, of the cold breeze. The unforgiving temperatures. Then Jinyoung smiles again and Jaebum has the sensation of melting. 

“Scared of what?” 

“Of what might happen. Of what else might happen.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Jaebum says, “We’re just going to go home after a few days, and try to put this behind us.” 

Jinyoung looks up at Jaebum, holds his gaze for a second. 

“I put some sleeping pills in the food, hopefully we can sleep through the night and deal with it tomorrow.” 

Jaebum frowns, cocks his head, “You did what?” 

“It’s not a lot, I promise. I’m just so scared, Jaebum, I don’t want anything else to happen.” 

Jaebum swallows, then studies Jinyoung, how his eyebrows push together, how his eyes look wide, scared, and big enough that the world might fit in them. They glitter for a moment, and Jaebum becomes disarmed, even smiles. 

“Let’s hope it works,” he says.

They spend another minute or two talking about nothing in particular, then Jinyoung says he’s drowsy and excuses himself and Jaebum is left alone to wrestle with this new sensation. Like something twisting in his stomach, climbing up the walls of it, rising to chest. 

If only they’d met under better circumstances, he thinks, and tries to dream of what they could be. 

\--

The next morning, Bambam goes missing for an hour. Yugyeom wakes everyone on the first floor up, panicked, desperate. They check the bathroom, they check the kitchen, they check every room, every studio.

They only find him when Mark wakes up and mentions Bambam’s apology, tells them that he’d gone inside to rest and Bambam had insisted on staying outside, somehow making the car work. 

They all rush outside, find Bambam’s body three feet behind the car, stiff and cold with frozen blood on his abdomen. Yugyeom yells, but not in pain, just in anger. He turns around and attacks Mark, pushes him to the ground, starts to kick and stomp until Jackson and Jaebum manage to pull him away. 

“He did it!” he yells, “He fucking did it! He’s the last one to see him -- he probably killed Youngjae, too! You fucking monster!” 

The rest of his yelling goes unnoticed. There’s something about the cold that delays the rest of their reactions, as if forcing them to think it through -- to overthink it. Jinyoung stares with his lips parted, at the body, at Mark, at Yugyeom’s angry, frustrated yelling. Everything seems to pulse -- the clouded sun, the car, the dead, the bodies. Jaebum’s head starts to hurt. 

Mark finally stands, spits out blood, looks small standing in the snow, standing curved over, shaking. 

“You didn’t drink anything,” Jinyoung says, quietly, then louder, “Everyone else -- they had sleeping pills. They were asleep but you -- you were the only one awake.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?!” 

Yugyeom chimes in, yelling again, struggling against Jaebum and Jackson, “You’re a sick fuck!” 

Jaebum holds him down, looks over at the mountain, the way it goes even higher than they are. He feels lightheaded, and when he looks back -- at the body and the people arguing over it -- he wonders if it’s all a dream. It feels that way, repetitive, almost cliche. For a second he wishes he were dead. Maybe this is shock, he thinks, maybe this is what the aftermath of adrenaline feels like. 

When he focuses again, they’re all yelling again, and Jackson lets go of Yugyeom -- he does the same. Instead of attacking him, he just breaks down, starts screaming. His wet cheeks glisten, and Jaebum has to look away as he mourns for Bambam. They all do, in their own way; Jackson stands stiff, Jinyoung trembles; Mark cries, though silently, off to the side, still shivering. 

Then, swimming out of the sorrow, comes Yugyeom’s voice, more definitive than it has been this entire weekend. 

“I don’t want him in the house,” he says and the rest are left to wrestle with what he means. Then, as if sensing their confusion, Yugyeom looks up. His eyes look wild, defiant, as if Bambam’s energy has found a new home, now residing in Yugyeom’s wide, dark gaze. He stands up, looks at Mark, then the rest of them. He starts to cry again. 

“I don’t want Mark in the house,” he says between sobs, “I don’t want him in there.” 

He moves to hit him again but he falls, starts to sob and claw at the snow. Everyone else is dazed, stunned into silence by the suggestion, by the cold. Winter rages on, seems to watch them, the way they take their time -- the way the gears in their minds turn, slowly, as if frozen. The way they make their human errors. Only Mark is sturdy, the blood now dry, frozen. He doesn’t look at anyone in particular, but he doesn’t look afraid. 

Jaebum thinks he almost looks guilty. 

“What are you saying?” It’s Jackson that asks, that finds enough composure to be the middle ground. 

Yugyeom has settled down, looks calmer now, though his voice still trembles. He sits up, then tries to get to his feet and he struggles, looks like a fawn learning to stand -- legs long, lean, wobbly. 

“I don’t want a fucking killer living with us,” he screams. 

Mark winces, then yells, “I didn’t fucking kill anyone!” 

Their argument starts again. Jaebum looks a few feet away to Bambam’s body. He wonders if he’s hearing it from wherever it is the dead go. He wonders if his spirit is there, watching, confused at his own body, confused at how small this argument seems against the rest of his life, against the rest of the world. Then Jinyoung’s voice rises to their ears and they all look at him. 

He looks scared, his entire body shaking, both by the cold, by the fright. 

“I don’t want to be in the house with him, either.” 

“What the fuck?!” Mark starts to yell again, but Yugyeom pushes him down, then wobbles to the door. Mark stands again, turns to the others, “You can’t be fucking serious!” 

Jackson looks regretful, but he shrugs. Jinyoung looks even more scared than before, and he rounds his way around Mark, who watches him closely. He reaches out, grabs Jinyoung’s arm and that’s when Jackson steps forward and pulls Mark back, pulls him so that he falls on his back, so that when he kicks him in the face, his skull thuds against the floor. He groans for a second, his head turning to the right, to the left. 

Jaebum watches, stunned, before Jackson tells him to hurry. 

“Unless you want to stay there with him.” 

He steps quickly to the door, looks back one last time before Jackson shuts it and bolts the door closed. Once inside, he hears the sound of Yugyeom wailing punctuated by Jinyoung’s attempt at comforting him. He looks at Jackson, who looks apologetic. He shakes his head, then shrugs, defeated. He isn’t sure of how old Jackson is but he looks older, much older than he could be. 

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” he admits, and for a second Jaebum thinks his voice might break. Then comes the pounding on the door. There are no windows in the side of the house, but there’s no mistaking Mark beating his fists against the door. His voice is high-pitched and desperate, his screams hoarse, as if already frozen by the time they leave his throat. 

“Let me in!” he screams, he cries, “Let me in! Please! I’ll fucking die out here!” 

The beating slows, then stops altogether. Jinyoung leaves Yugyeom’s room, walks towards them. 

“He wants to be alone for a while,” he says and Jaebum nods. 

“He stopped yelling,” Jackson says and for a moment Jaebum imagines Mark frozen outside, like a statue, midway into pounding on the door. He imagines if they open the door again, if they push too hard, they might break him. He might shatter into pieces. 

Then the pounding returns, not on this door but the front one. His shouts are more muffled, almost blend into the wind. The three of them walk slowly towards the front. Jinyoung stops in his tracks, holds the two of them back, then points at the window. Mark is there, trying to look inside, beating his fist against it. Jaebum notices his lack of clothes -- he didn’t even have a chance to throw a coat on. After a minute he pulls away from the window, and the three of them take the chance to get closer, to make their way to the edge of it. From there they watch Mark walk off the patio and into the snow. He stumbles on towards the road, then down the path, then disappears into the white of winter. They sit there watching until his figure is small, and even after they can’t see him anymore, they keep watching as if waiting for him to return. 

As if waiting to wake up from a dream. 

—

“He wants to be alone.”

Jackson sighs, Jaebum stirs from his side of the bed. Jinyoung’s room is too small to hold them — but still, they’ve gathered at his urging. 

“I’m scared to be alone,” he’d said, but now they feel silly, like children. Even the youngest of them is fine with being alone, even wants it; even the youngest recognizes the danger is over.

At least that’s what the lines on Jackson’s face say when he grunts, sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the wall. Jinyoung looks at his clothes, then tries to follow Jackson’s gaze, as if delaying the inevitable. Finally, he crawls into bed, the middle of it, and Jaebum starts to breathe again.

“I don’t feel like myself,” Jinyoung says, tries to laugh, but most of the sound in the room is muffled. Something else looms, something unexplored, mysterious. Jinyoung looks around the room as if he’s trying to find it, like a thread they’ve lost. Jinyoung even raises a hand to trail it through the air, like making paths, like he’ll find the explanation by sifting through the stagnant air. 

He finds it through touch, though not in the air, not in his breaths, not even in sound but in the folds of Jaebum’s clothing. An hour later, Jinyoung fits between Jaebum, between Jackson, and when he thinks they’ve both fallen asleep, Jaebum feels Jinyoung’s hands on his stomach. He’s laying on his back, his head propped up on a pillow so he can watch Jinyoung’s hand smooth over his stomach, can watch his fingers curl over the edge of his shirt. Then he pulls it upwards and he feels the drag of his nails -- it makes his stomach tighten, it makes his thighs stiffen. He tries to look at Jinyoung but he’s not looking up at him. They both focus on his hand and his fingers, the circle they make over the happy trail, the smooth slide under his shorts, his underwear. The flick of his wrist when he pulls them both down so he can pull out his cock and start to stroke. He thinks he hears Jinyoung gasp, thinks he sees his lips part but the sensation of being stroked, of all his nerves wrapping around his cock, aligned with Jinyoung’s fingers, makes his eyes close. 

Jinyoung isn’t soft -- he strokes hard, to the base, to the tip, loosens his grip and rubs his thumb over his swollen tip and Jaebum bites back a groan, loses himself to the sensation: the cold warmth, the unfulfilled nerve, like an itch he can’t scratch, that needs friction, needs heat, needs Jinyoung to go faster, to be more brusque. 

He almost forgets that Jackson is in bed with them until Jinyoung stops stroking. Jaebum’s lips have opened, remain slack with pleasure, jaw pressed forward, eyebrows pushed together. Still he opens his eyes, traces Jinyoung’s figure now joined with Jackson: he sees them kiss, sees the sliver of tongue in the messy shape, the motion. Some spit dribbles down Jinyoung’s lips and jaw but he doesn’t seem to mind because Jackson is stroking him, too. He has his underwear down, his shorts down around his knees, and pumps his cock so quickly and harshly that Jaebum aches with envy, so much that he scoots closer and takes Jackson’s wrist, lifts his hand of Jinyoung’s cock and puts it on his own. Jackson doesn’t miss a beat and strokes with the same speed and fervor and Jaebum almost cums from the sight of him tonguing Jinyoung down, but he sighs instead, pants, thinks a whine lines his throat but he can no longer be sure. 

Jinyoung doesn’t feel like himself tonight, and he doesn’t either, no longer knows where he ends, where he might begin. 

The room fills with their pants, with the creaking of the bed, the rustle of fabric. It fills with the sound of them moving positions so that Jackson is naked on his back, as is Jinyoung. It fills with the sound of Jaebum stripping and settling between their hips so he can alternate between sucking Jinyoung and Jackson off. 

Jackson’s cock is uncut and shorter but thick, easier to hold in his mouth, easier to press his tongue against. Jaebum pulls the foreskin back and lets it rest against his tongue. He wraps his lips around it, closes his eyes, focuses on the taste and temperature -- he wonders how something can feel so hot without burning him. How even when his nose presses against the pubes around Jackson’s base, he still wishes he could go deeper, wishes his throat could fill with his taste, with the warm skin, with the rubbery tip that glides along the top of his throat. He slides off it with a lick, with a nuzzle, with a quick suck on his balls. He means to do more but Jinyoung’s fingers gather around his scalp and pull him off, away. 

Soon his mouth fills with Jinyoung’s -- longer, cut, but thinner. Jinyoung is the one he chokes on, the one he tries to pull off of but Jinyoung holds him in place until he’s near tears. Even then, Jinyoung guides him by the fistful of hair, makes him hold back every choke, every cough. It takes up so much space in his mouth that for a second he can think of nothing else; his world is salty and throbbing and his mouth is wide open to accommodate, wide enough that spit gathers around the edge of his lips and falls off and wets Jinyoung even more. His bushy pubes rub against his nose and when he relaxes, finally, he can smell Jinyoung. He breathes in through his nose as best as he can, tries to memorize the scent, to let it waft into him. He pulls his hand off Jackson’s cock, slowly reaches down, between his legs, to his own. 

Jaebum pulls off Jinyoung’s cock only to be pushed down, then lifted again, and soon he stops trying. Jinyoung does a better job of keeping rhythm, so he just  keeps his mouth rounded, his tongue pressed and at the ready as his cock slides in and out, slides against his wet lips, hits the roof of his mouth, grazes his teeth. At one point Jinyoung pulls his head to the side so his cock runs along the inside of his cheek. He groans at this, forgets that Jackson is present again and Jackson, as if to remind him, gets off the bed, goes to the edge of it, the end. He gets on his knees and climbs on and lifts Jaebum’s legs off the mattress, higher and higher, props his thighs against his shoulders. 

Jackson leans in, digs his nose between Jaebum's cheeks, at the cleft of his ass. He pries him open with one hand and Jaebum feels his warm breath against his hole and he twitches -- his entire body seems to -- and a second later, Jackson’s tongue is on him. First its a stripe to get him ready, then his tongue is slipping into him, past his rim, trying to dig inside him and this makes Jaebum needy. It makes him feel a hunger he’s never felt before. 

Jinyoung lets go of his hair and closes his eyes and fits his hands behind his head and Jaebum -- fired up from the tongue stretching him open, from the occasional spank of his ass, and from the feeling of his body in the air, not touching the bed -- sucks him off hungrily. He keeps his lips wrapped tight around his cock as he bobs his head, lets saliva drip all over it, ignores the pain in his neck and shoulders as he stretches to get as much of his cock as he can in his mouth. As he creates enough friction as he can. 

By the time Jinyoung cums, with a tiny grunt, a hardening of his body, Jaebum has a hand on his hip holding him down. He swallows most of it. From his position, he can’t help but let some drip over his thighs. Some drops fall to his stomach and Jaebum stretches, does the impossible as Jackson spanks him hard enough that he braces himself, tongues him enough that he feels ready to filled, to be taken advantage off, to be stretched and fucked, and he licks every drop of cum. He cleans Jinyoung’s cock so that it stands, proud, shining, with Jaebum’s thin lips wrapped around his head as it softens. Even then he tries to suck, licks his balls, his pubes, the inside of his thighs, the crease of his hip. 

Soon, though, Jackson lets him drop to the bed and they all rearrange positions again. Jaebum gets on all fours, Jackson lines himself up behind him. Jinyoung, now soft, gets on his knees and lifts Jaebum’s head just enough to kiss him, to swallow every murmur that Jackson draws out of him.

Jackson makes Jaebum sing -- rather, his cock makes him sing. He rams it into him with little regard for Jaebum, self-seeking, selfish. Jaebum feels like nothing more than an object when Jackson fucks him, as his entire body shakes and warms and for every snap of hips he groans, groans into Jinyoung’s plush and soft lips, into his tongue that licks at Jaebum, that keeps him grounded, that keeps him from noticing the tears streaming down his cheeks. And when he doesn’t have the concentration to kiss -- when Jackson is rough enough that all he can do is keep his shaky arms straight, can barely hold himself up -- Jinyoung holds his head, rubs his hair, his back, whispers in his ears, “You’re so good at taking cock.”

Then he stops hearing much of anything. His senses gather on the smack of skin, of Jackson’s hips and balls smacking against his ass and its ripple through him. His bones feel hot, red-hot, as if he’s being burned from the inside out and he feels stretched raw -- feels opened, permanently. As if his whole body were changing, were being rearranged around Jackson’s cock. His back arches, his neck curves, and he whimpers as if he’s meeting heaven. 

It goes on forever, an infinite intimacy. He sees no end to the pain, nor to the pleasure. His thighs wobble, his arms have given up -- Jackson holds him up by the hips, Jinyoung by the head. He sees stars behind his eyes, but they offer no comfort. They seem to burn, too, and glow brighter and brighter. He feels dizzy and hot and Jackson’s fucking starts to lean closer to pain, one that won’t end, and when he’s sure he’ll pass out, he pulls out. In a few seconds he feels cum rain on his back -- and this burns, too, but sweetly. 

He finally catches a breathe, finally allows himself to collapse. Jinyoung curls at his side, Jackson joins him to the other. When he opens his eyes they’re looking at him -- Jinyoung sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead, his lips reddened. Jackson has all his hair pushed back and he runs a hand over his chest, rubs a thumb over his nipple.

Stars still dot the edges of his vision, and for a long time after the heater turns on, he thinks he’s dead. 

—

They find Yugyeom in pieces. An arm in the kitchen, a foot in the bathroom.

Jinyoung wakes them up, frantic, screaming that Yugyeom is gone. They look everywhere, but once they find the fingers in the sink, the rest comes as surprises.

They find an ear on the couch, a thumb in the pantry. Although Yugyeom’s room is empty, there’s a stain of his blood in most of the rooms -- almost like presents left on each bed, tiny reminders of their lack of control, their lack of sense. Jinyoung finds a hand on the stairs and runs to the bathroom to vomit. Jackson finds an eye on the window sill. He tries to run to the bathroom, too, but he never makes it past the hallway. 

Slowly, they reunite in Jinyoung’s room. They sit in silence until the air starts to thicken; until the walls seems smaller than before; until Jaebum is sure he can’t breathe, that he needs to leave, that he needs to go outside and let the cold numb him from it all but he stands to leave and Jinyoung whimpers and shakes his head and Jackson asks him to stay, not with words, not with his hands, but in his eyes. They seem broken and small and the tiniest angle of his eyebrows, threatening to push together, to make him frown in a way Jaebum didn’t seem possible, and it’s enough for Jaebum to sit again. 

But he asks, “Are we just going to stay here?”

Jinyoung looks away to think but he looks confused, more than before. He turns back without an ounce of confidence. 

“We only have to survive until tomorrow,” he says, but Jaebum can tell from his eyes that the days have blurred together. That days no longer have meaning to him. That his eyes, wild but silent, as if slowly regressing, losing their reason, speak more than his tongue ever could. 

He is too trusting, he thinks, too raw, like snow that has just fallen. No footprints, no damage, no evil.

That’s when he knows Jinyoung won’t make it out alive. 

\--

“I have to shower,” Jackson says after a few hours of being trapped. 

“We can’t leave,” Jinyoung says, already on the verge of tears -- panicked and scared, like he has been this whole time. 

“We need to eat,” Jackson replies, almost mad, “What’s the point of being safe if we’re going to die of dehydration.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Jinyoung says, “I’m not thirsty. I can make it until tomorrow.”

Jackson gives Jaebum a look, a knowing one. Jinyoung is on the verge of passing out, which makes him wonder how much he’s eaten, or how much he hasn’t eaten since everything began. The first day seems like it’s happened years ago, and he realizes he’s lost the track of time, too. He feels dazed, almost sweetly so. As if having death so close were knocking down the walls that separate this world from the next, earth from heaven. He almost expects to walk outside and find a floor of clouds, a hallway of gold. 

But Jackson stands and Jinyoung wrings his hands, shakes his head. 

“Please don’t leave -- we can’t be alone.” 

Jackson looks at him for help and Jaebum shrugs.

“I can stand outside the door,” he offers, “So that I can keep watch on both of you. Then I’ll shower, get some food, while Jackson keeps watch. That way we won’t be alone -- I can warn you two if I see something.” 

For a long time there’s silence, not even a breath of hesitation, no rustle, nothing. Time stands still as Jinyoung looks at the ground with broken eyes, then looks up, and through tears he nods. 

“Sure,” he says, “But please don’t leave.” 

Jaebum looks at Jackson -- they nod, step outside. Jackson heads directly to the bathroom. He walks confident, no longer scared, but Jaebum can see through his act. He lets the door to the room close behind him, waits for the shower door to close.

Months later, when he writes about this experience, he’ll make sure to note that Jinyoung is responsible for Jackson’s death, no one else. 

He should have suggested they all stay in the bathroom while they shower, Jaebum thinks, but he forgives Jinyoung. He’s scared, irrational, nothing makes sense, though he thinks that Jinyoung could never be capable of suspicion. He waits until he hears the click of the heater go on, then makes his way to the kitchen. He’s quiet as he searches around the pantry, finally finds the tub of nuts. He grabs a fistful. 

When he steps inside the bathroom, Jackson smiles. And when he makes the motions of undressing, Jackson looks the other way, waiting. Jaebum takes a moment to admire him: small body, though compact, muscled, round bottom, tan skin -- a sliver of a tattoo up his side. His thighs are short but thick, glisten as he sways from side to side, as if he hears a silent song. Jaebum takes off his shoes, but nothing more. He steps inside the shower, wraps his arm around Jackson’s neck before he can turn around. 

Jackson’s death is the easiest. He shoves the peanuts into his mouth, waits for the eventual gasping, the small fight he gives, the eventual slump in his arms. His body goes slack in Jaebum’s arms and he stays like that for a while, enjoys the weight, imagines the soul leaving through his pores. He lets him down slowly against the tile, then turns off the shower. 

Outside, he undresses until he’s naked. He walks the short length to their room, opens the door slowly.

Jinyoung is asleep on the bed, curled up, and he looks small like this -- Jaebum almost feels bad. But in the same breath, he wonders if he’ll look this small tomorrow when he runs outside to look for the driver, when he trips and crawls around in the snow.

He wonders what he’ll say when he turns around, when Jaebum is there, calm, watching. When Jaebum apologizes, tells him that no car is coming. That no car was ever going to come. 

He wonders what Jinyoung will do, then. 

He wonders if Jinyoung will die, but he shakes the thought from his mind. He slips into bed, wraps his limbs around Jinyoung, stirs him awake. If he dies, he thinks, it’ll be his choice. This has always required participation. 

“Where’s Jackson?” he asks, half-scared, half-awake, fully lovely. 

Jaebum smiles, kisses his neck, then closes his eyes. 

“He’s keeping watch,” he says, “While we sleep.”

Jinyoung nods and turns so that they can face each other, so that their limbs can entwine, so that he can curl and rest his head against Jaebum's chest. 

Jaebum runs a finger through Jinyoung’s hair, closes his eyes, and dreams of tomorrow.

Tomorrow, tomorrow.


End file.
